Irony At Its Thinnest
by MochaCocaFan
Summary: Oh baby if you only knew/ I'm down to 102...--Willy Wonka, amazing chocolateer, always munching on his fantastic candy. Have you ever wondered how he manages to be so shapely? The answer is amongst the darkest you can imagine...--


It was the ultimate irony.

Willy Wonka, the undefeated chocolatier, King of Candy, never ate a thing. Not a thing.

He still ordered food, healthy things like tofu and oranges and sugar free jello, just so there would be no suspicion. Besides, he needed to make sure that if (_when, when, not if, never if_) he woke in a starving haze at three in the morning, that if he drunkenly stumbled into the kitchen that he kept in his private suite, that if he devoured the contents of the whole fridge, that it wouldn't be permanently damaging. Of course, he could stick one gloved finger down his steadily shrinking throat and vomit it back up, but that was just crass.

That he could work it off. He had a huge factory to walk around; he could walk off every bit of food he ate (_gobble down hungrily oh God Jesus fuck Mary shit crap so fucking hungry gotta eat must eat have to eat can't die must must must eat_) in about three hours. He did have to be careful, of course, that he didn't get tempted to have any of the candy he produced, but a simple electric-shock implant in his jaw fixed that. The button was in his glove, his left glove.

One little push of a button and his whole jaw would be numb. And no animal would eat when it couldn't feel it's mouth. Well. Any animal with Willy's incredible willpower.

Food was disgusting, he mused. A filthy addiction, not unlike heroin or cocaine. A slimy sloppy mess of plant and animal corpses, a collection of dead cells and rotting carcasses. The most hypocritical idiots were the vegans; they refused to eat any animal, but they cheerily slaughtered millions upon millions of plants. Were animals worth more than plants? Both lived. Both died. The only difference was that plants were self-reliant enough to reproduce and feed themselves; no killing to survive for them, save for the loss of life that might have been had they not existed, but even rocks did that, and rocks didn't even live.

Of course, he was essentially killing himself. Not really, though, not really. It wasn't violent enough to qualify as killing. More like not living, really. Not taking an action in the opposite direction, but simply not going in the direction everyone else seemed to take. It was not _doing something_. It was refusing to do something.

Every single day when his mind puzzled out about how he would, precisely, lose weight today. Because weight was a terrible, awful thing. It was a massive weight pulling you down, down, down, down right down to the filthy crawling bowels of hell, where everything is sweaty and bloated and greasy, where you cannot move without jiggling, where every twitch disturbs the sloughing fat, the disgusting blubber that coats and insulates the body from what the world really is: an incinerator ready to burn every last fucking moron right up.

Plastering the walls of his rooms, every last hunk of wall, are thousands of overlapping pictures. Airbrushed, cut, glued, nailed, pressed, colored, mutilated, altered pictures. Pictures of skinny arms, of bony hips, of ridges of ribs, of faces molded into the shape of skulls underneath, of twig-mimicking thighs, of bony ankles and elbows, of skinny skinny skinny skeletons. Thinspiration so disturbing that Paris Hilton would gape in horror.

Not just girls, you understand. Men and women and the ones somewhere inbetween, and those with no gender too. Posters that if you changed your angle of vision just the tiniest bit, you would see first a bloody animal carcass and then a Happy Meal. Variations of those poster were scattered about the room, overlapped and overlapping, constantly reinforcing the deadly state of non-being that was anorexia nervosa.

Huh. 'Nervous lack of appetite'. What a ridiculous name. Willy wasn't having a lack of appetite; he was not satisfying his appetite. His awful filthy dirty primitive body still wanted its drug, like a junkie still wanted their fix. He was most certainly not nervous. Nervousness was a sick, dilated manifestion of the deadly, unstoppable virus that was fear. To be afraid was to fear a possibility, not a certainty. His pathetic worthless meaningless existence was going to end in a matter of days. It was inevitable; a fact. There was nothing that could either speed it up nor slow it down. With certainty died fear.

He was unafraid of what he _knew_. He was afraid of what he _thought_.

And yet, he could not let anyone know. The Oompa-Loompas didn't know, although he was fairy sure they suspected _something_ was up. But who would they tell? What would they do? Without him, they were utterly disconnected from the world. Without him, they were jungle hillbillies stuck working in an underground factory where they were paid in mother-friggin' chocolate. And not the good chocolate either, because how would they tell the difference? They'd been eating raw caco beans all their lives. The crap he gave them was like heaven compared to what they were used to.

They would all be given good jobs that paid them actual wages once his disgusting filthy husk of a body was decomposing more than it already was. He arranged everything early on, once he realized just how far his little 'diet' would go. Once he realized the pointlessness of living. Once he realized how addicted the whole damn human race was.

Human race. Not mammals, indeed, but a virus that infected everything and everyone. A virus that would eventually self-destruct after destroying everything in its path. A race of monsters spawned to kill nature from the beginning. If Mother Nature actually existed, she was the most suicidal thing ever, because her 'perfect creation' would no doubt kill her stone dead.

* * *


End file.
